Chapter Text
"Where's everyone going? Bingo?"
The ever-familiar line still steals a chuckle from your lungs. Almost dreamily, you pause the pen, writing down your notes to turn your attention to your laptop screen. There he stands, with the bleak backdrop of a rural village in the middle of Spain. He looks around, his arms outstretched beside him as the camera pans backwards until you get another good look at the poor officer burnt at the stake. You almost feel bad for chuckling, but you only shake your head at the thought.
They were characters from a game. A collection of pixels based on a real-life model in a fictional world where the end of the world can, and will happen, if nothing changes.
"As if anything has changed," you bitterly murmur into the night, lips capturing the paper straw of your now watery coffee from earlier that evening. You turn your attention to the clock at your side, the time reading "11:11 p.m." as you heave out a heavy sigh.
Rubbing your fatigued eye with the back of your hand, your eyes eventually fell back onto your messy desk — scattered notes with neon colored highlights, a textbook flipped to a random diagram, and your phone hidden underneath even more papers. With a sigh, you think it's time to call it a night. Tomorrow was still a Tuesday, and you don't think your mind or body will appreciate you staying up past midnight to get ready for a 7 a.m. class.
As you're about to get up, the lamp on the far end of your desk starts flickering, and with a sudden boom, it shuts off entirely.
You jump at the stray sparks. "That's weird," you say with apprehension. You try to flick it on and off again, then check underneath the table to find the cable and plug in perfect condition. "Must be an unlucky night, I guess…" You brush off. You're just about to drop off your chair to try and unplug it, afraid of the chances of starting an electrical fire in your university dorm, but a sudden knock on the front door stops you.
With furrowed brows, you hesitantly reach for your phone. No new messages from your roommate about coming back so late, and even if he did, he didn't have to knock; he has a spare key after all.
"Something's not right," you utter to yourself, a kind of self-consolation habit your friends have pointed out. It helps you stay calm under pressure, and right now, it feels like you are going to suffocate.
You whip your head at the tapping on the window, sighing in relief when you realize it's only a tree branch. You throw one final uneasy glance at your door, deciding not to take any risks and rush over to lock it. Stepping away from it quietly, being mindful not to step on the floorboards you know will sing, you dash the window and feel the evening air brush your cheeks.
A shiver racks through your spine as you grab onto the windowsills and shut it with a quiet thump. Another sigh leaves you, the kind that feels like your lungs will follow after. You don't know how long you stand there, hand on the windowsill, while the other grips the curtains.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
You don't remember opening the window earlier that evening, or ever. After hearing about that grim story about a previous student falling out, you haven't even set foot near it.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Adrenaline rushes through your body as you dart for your laptop. The playthrough of Resident Evil 4 is still playing in the middle of your potential death, and perhaps herding your maybe killer to the room with the loud gunshots.
"Stop, stop, stop…!" You don't even remember why the volume was loud. It's never usually this loud. You realize in great mortification that the sound isn't playing in through your headphones as it had a few minutes ago.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
The doorknob turns, and you feel the sudden shift in the air.
It's so much harder to breathe, your vision is blurring, and your knuckles are ghostly white as you hold onto your desk for support. Uncaring for the noise of your study materials clattering to the ground, you push your chair against the doorknob and watch as it jerks from the force behind the other side.
Heavy breaths escape you, clammy and sweaty palms clutch at your phone as you unlock it with your passcode. You rush to call your roommate when —
BANG!
A loud gunshot rings through the building. It rips a scream from your lungs as a pain blooms in your chest. You think another person screams with you, directly into your ears as you fall to your knees, the carpeted floors softening the fall as you clutch at your head. The ringing starts, faint at first, before it becomes unbearable. You see the chair you pushed against the door fall right in front of your eyes.
You don't look at your killer — too afraid, too unwilling to face your demise head-on as you have always wanted. With the little strength your legs have left, you push your body to the window, shaking hands, trying to undo the lock you don't remember pushing down.
Air becomes a luxury as something grabs you by the neck. Your legs swing pathetically as they're lifted from the ground, and you think you catch the reflection of a monster through the window.
Tall, dark-skinned, with hollow eyes. The sheer size of the hand around your neck can very much pop your skull if it so wishes, and that scares you. You try to break free — digging your nails into its skin, sinking your damn teeth in until you taste iron on your tongue. You can't even begin to think of another way to at least hinder… whatever your killer is when your back is pushed against the wall, knocking the little breath out of your lungs.
Everything hurts. Your ears are ringing, and there's a strange siren sound. The light bulb over your heads suddenly blacks out before it pops like an overfilled water balloon, shrouding you in even more dread at the thought of being left alone in the dark with your murderer.
Your fingers refuse to let up from their struggle, continuing to dig into its strange, gray skin. "Please… let me go." Tears well up in the corner of your eyes, your vision beginning to give out. "I don't want to die…"
You think there's someone behind your killer. Followed by the sound of paper bags dropping to the floor, and someone shouting your name.
Oh, he's back.
Your roommate came home at the wrong time, you think bitterly. Worry nestles in your chest when your executioner turns its head towards him. Even with your blurred vision and lack of oxygen in the brain, you know you won't live with the fact that you got your best friend killed. So with little force, you dig your nails further into its skin until you feel crimson seep into your nailbeds. Then, with a pained grunt, you dig it further until you reach flesh, and the sound of tearing can be heard through the room.
"Asshole," you cough up. "Don't you even dare to lay a hand on him…"
Those are your final words as the grip on your neck tightens, your feet dangling further up in the air, before your back is harshly slammed against the wall.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEE—
You jolt awake. Sweat is clinging to your forehead as it trickles down the side of your face and your back. A hand flies to feel around your neck as your legs push you up from the chair. You feel them give up, not even a second later, giving out before you can take another step forward. But the pain from whatever bad dream, that nightmare, you were in overwhelmed it. When you reach the mirror behind your door, your shoulders sag in relief.
No red marks in the shape of enlarged fingers around your neck, no pain blooming on your back from being shoved into the wall, and no dark executioner coming to claim your life.
You were fine. You were safe.
"Jesus Christ," you shakily reach to drag a finger under your eye, pulling at the skin before falling to feel your own pulse drum. With a disbelieving laugh, you lay a hand on the wall to support yourself as you find your footing. "I need to stop binge-watching these Resident Evil playthroughs. It's fucking with my dreams."
Your steps are unsteady as you make your way back to your desk, dropping back into your spinny chair with your head tilted up at the ceiling. You don't remember how long you were zoned out for — maybe just a few minutes, maybe even an hour. All you care about in this moment is that you're alive, that you're safe, and that no one is about to burst through your doors unannounced and give your poor roommate a heart attack for giving him front row seats to your death.
You're about to sling an arm over your eyes, having grown tired of seeing the cream walls—
Hold on.
You sit up, spinning the chair to look at the window and making a bolt for it to open the blinds—
Blinds? No, that can't be right… You had curtains. Pale blue curtains with star-like patchwork after your roommate complained about it being too plain.
You rush to your desk next, shoving all the papers off to find the still beeping phone. A flip phone, in the big year of 2025? With furrowed brows, you snooze the alarm and gasp. It's supposed to be Tuesday. Tuesday.
You were studying for an upcoming pre-test for finals the night before — on Monday, 11:11 p.m., as you recall — in the year of 2025. How is it possible that it's 8:19 a.m. on a Saturday… in the year 2002.
"No, no… this can't be happening. This can't be fucking happening!"
You check the closet next, and you feel your heart sink further into your stomach when it's empty. None of your favorite tops and flared jeans, no over-the-top leather jackets, and no hidden Polaroid of you and your roommate when you pulled the bottom drawer open.
The bed is next, and you realize in mortification that it can hardly be called a bed. No bedsheets, no stuffed animals won from carnivals. Just one pillow and a thin piece of fabric you think is supposed to be a blanket, both stained yellow and uncreased from disuse.
"You've got to be kidding me," you call out to your roommate, letting your throat run coarse until you audibly can't say his name anymore. "Shit, shit, shit…"
Only your desk remains untouched, which is another glaring red flag. Your side of the room is filled with shelves of trinkets, your school textbooks, and small gifts from companions. Now, the walls are barren. Devoid of any connection to the outside world.
You think the cream walls with peeling paint are mocking you. You drop back down into the chair, letting it creak under your weight as you drag yourself closer, brows furrowing and heart hammering as you pick up one paper after the other. Red circles over article titles, pictures of politicians, and… doctors? There are even maps of a city and its metro lines with scribbled, smudged notes in the corners.
This city. Washington, D.C.
"This is a coincidence," you chant to yourself, "Just some cruel joke my mind is putting me through for never sleeping enough." Because how are you supposed to believe that you're now in Washington, D.C.? Almost nine thousand miles away from home?
That idea, of being so far away from the place you grew up in, is enough for the tears to escape. A choked sob wracks through your body until you're hunched over the desk, soaking the research notes and maps with salty mourning and fear. "This can't be happening."
You cry for a long time. Longer than you have in all the years you've lived through combined. Somehow, this is worse than having a stranger break into your dorm and choke you to death. Because at least there, you can die in a place you called home. Here? You were a stranger. A ghost that got lost in the weeping trip into the underworld.
How can you go back home? Could you even go back home?
The question plagues you. The fear lingers with you still.
By the time you raise your head, the sun had almost set into the distance. "At least the view is nice."
You rub your puffy eyes with the back of your hand, the rough fabric of your favorite sweater soaking up the leftover tears. In your mind, you're grateful that you could at least have one familiar thing in this strange place. Your eyes sweep over the desk one more time. With a resigned sigh, you got to work.
You moved all the papers to the pathetic excuse for a bed this room offers and began reading.
They ranged from journal entries to university notes about the multiverse. You can't wrap your head around the logical reasoning behind it, choosing to stick with what you already understand — all of which stemmed from reading fiction at 4 a.m. instead of getting up. What you do find the most interesting in the folder with medical records.
Curiously, you flip through the pages, only to stop mid-action when you see a familiar red and white logo at the center. You want to ignore it, pretend you didn't even see it to begin with, and put the documents away, but your stomach is doing somersaults.
Your brain is telling you to put it away, maybe even burn it. But your goddamn curiosity is holding a tighter leash over your safety.
So with shaky hands, you carefully flip the page.
UMBRELLA CO. INTELLIGENCE REPORTS
"[NAME]" — OFFSPRING OF ████ AND █████ ████.
Your breath hitches, hands nearly drop the files into your lap if you hadn't caught yourself. Your name, your name under Umbrella Corporation records. A classified one with your supposed parents' names redacted. With a wavering exhale, you continue reading.
After receiving the wrong dosage, the patient managed to flee by setting off the electricity in the building, popping all of the lightbulbs to continue hiding in the dark. This was almost a year ago. Now, the patient is missing, with no means of tracking them.
Recent records have shown signs in Washington, D.C., specifically, at Howard University. They are operating under a false identity of a student named "Eurydike" to research quantum mechanics and the multiverse.
If found, return to ███'s research department unharmed. If they resist and refuse to cooperate, do not hesitate to terminate.
The word "terminate" brings terror into your bones. You refuse to read any more of the report, tucking the manila folder in the bottom drawer of your empty closet and closing the blinds of your window. You don't let your mind linger on how your hands haven't stopped shaking, or how you have to use the wall to support the crumbling of your knees.
You sit back down in the spinny chair, head tilted, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as if it'll drop the answer to you if you stare for long enough. You stay like that until your eyes begin to tear up from the dryness. "What am I going to do? What am I supposed to do?" When neither the ceiling nor your walls answers, you click your tongue and begin to push yourself back to where the bed is.
You were ready to face plant onto the mattress — at least it felt and smelled clean, and comfortable enough to herd you into a dream — if your eyes didn't catch sight of an ajar drawer of the desk. You blinked, thinking that the stress and exhaustion were playing tricks on you. But no amount of blinking got rid of it as you expected.
Were you really about to lose your only chance of finding sleep on your horrible first day at Washington?
Yes. Yes, you were.
With hurried ease, you pull the drawer open and regret not listening to your brain as you pick up a single piece of paper with "your" photograph in a metro, files tucked under an arm, and a mask obscuring half your face. When you turn the photograph over, you quickly shove it back in the drawer. Reaching for the nearest pen and memopad, you haphazardly wrote "do not open" and smacked it on the wooden surface before finally going to bed. Hiding behind the thin fabric of your supposed blanket, squeezing your eyes shut, and trying to will away the sight of a bright red, bolded warning.
STOP LOOKING.
There's this saying you went by religiously when you were still in college, struggling to come to terms with your future and coping with the distance from the family that sheltered you.
"Curiosity killed the cat, but satisfaction brought it back."
Throughout the years, you learned how to will your brain to grow interested in the terms flashed on screens, hanging on to every word your professor would drop because they threatened to add it to your exams, and how you started to venture into the more obscure, unpopulated parts of campus for a breath of fresh air.
For the longest time, that curiosity was what kept you going. Kept that drumming determination in your chest from slowing as the current of pressure and failure crashed into you every day. It was a cruel kind of push and pull, a tug of war between what you wanted versus what you needed. The ever-present dilemma of whether to risk the comfort of practicality to risk it all for a moment of passion?
The cat in your life decided the latter, because who were you if not someone who pushed the boundary of what is safe and what is not? You'd be the one to decide what is best for you, and you alone.
The following day after your initial arrival, you decided to take a quick trip to the mall for some essentials — toiletries, spare clothes, and a new phone. All were bought with the mysterious card loaded with money. You don't want to wonder where the hell it came from. When the thought settles heavily in your mind, images of bloodied bodies and mutated monsters replace the scones on your plate, and your coffee is replaced by a mucky, dark liquid.
You leave the café not even ten minutes later, clutching at your throat as the air begins to suffocate you.
It's as if you're taken back in time: back in your dorm surrounded by darkness, your roommate calling for you, and a pair of monstrous hands blocking your airways. And the worst feeling is having the people in the mall brush past you as if you were just a ghost. Even as you're hunched over, gripping the walls with pale fingers for support, none approached to ask how you were.
You were utterly and wholeheartedly alone.
You blink away the afterimages with the tears at the thought. "No use in crying about it now," you console yourself.
When your breath starts evening out, you are using the glass display case of a boutique showcasing a plethora of jackets. The sight alone makes your stomach squeeze. There, at the front, is a brow leather jacket by Schott NYC. Its fur lining on the collar, cuffs, and bottom reminds you so much of someone you couldn't help but enter the store.
In your mind, maybe, just maybe, if you had a small piece of familiarity, it'd help you from spiraling into a giant mess.
By the time you return home, you unceremoniously drop the shopping bags by your desk and curl up in your bed, the jacket still on. You breathe in the smell of leather. Earthy and rich, so unlike the chemicals you'd find on the jackets you owned back at home.
"Home."
It feels like a foreign word to you now.
Were you home, in this cramped apartment somewhere in Washington, D.C.? Could you still go home to that university dorm room as if nothing had happened?
You don't know. You don't think you'll ever know.
And that's the thought that pushed you the next day to take the quickest route to Howard University.
You realize fairly quickly that the you of this country is infamous. When you walk down the pavement, and students recognize your face, or when you ask one for directions. "Assistant Professor," the students will call you, sometimes even "Doctor," as you speed walk through the halls, a hand fisting the piece of paper in your jacket's pocket.
"Professor, welcome back!"
"Good morning, doctor."
"Doctor, you're back! Will you be teaching us again?"
"Professor? I thought you were on break?"
It breaks your heart a little when you dismiss every student with a crooked smile and a haphazard apology. They were all so earnest, so eager to have their teacher back on campus. But you were not you — not the one they know, at least. You keep your head low as your feet take you to Founder's Library, the university's seven-library system, to find the supposed unfinished research files you left behind in a rush almost six months ago.
"Doctor, you're back," the librarian greets you. A beautiful woman with braids in her hair, maple-kissed skin, and a surprised look in her black eyes. Your eyes find her name tag, "Victoria Simmons."
"Only for a while," you quickly reply when her words hang in the air.
She only gives you an understanding smile, dropping the books in her hands to leave her seat at the receptionist table to guide you.
"Oh, no, no, it's okay. I can handle myself."
A bald-faced lie — you didn't know where your supposed research notes were, and a guide is much appreciated. But fear grips at your heart like an invisible force. You can't let anyone be involved in whatever research you have been doing; you mustn't.
"What nonsense," Victoria dismisses. Her manicured nails clamp down on your shoulders and usher you inside, "Everyone deserves a little break. I was afraid you'd overworked yourself to death! Let me do one nice thing for you before you leave."
The guilt eats you alive. You don't deserve this display of kindness; the other you did.
You can only flash her a wobbly smile, tears threatening to burst from your eyes as you follow her further into the library. Her chatter distracts you for a while, and for a moment, you pretend that everything is fine. You laugh with her, get lost in the aisles of books, and entertain the idea of getting coffee after. You pretend that there's no note in your pocket that could lead you back home, or further to your demise. That you were indeed a beloved assistant professor with a doctorate, helping out students who wanted some extra credit.
Victoria tells you stories about your adventures. How you, apparently, got into a scuffle with the Dean of Architecture when you insulted his favorite building, or when you would sit with the students instead of the staff at lunch.
"You're such a magnet, y'know that doc?" Victoria jests, handing you a blue leatherbound book. You feel your breath hitch when you read your name at the bottom, engraved in gold. "I don't think I've ever seen that many students fight for a slot over a class." Her chuckle is warm, like the breeze on a summer day when you're at the beach with close friends. Victoria's eyes never once left you as you flip through one page after the other.
"The kids will miss you when you're gone."
"But I'm not—"
You pause mid-sentence when you finally look up.
Victoria's gaze had this… emotion. Understanding, you think, but above all, it's solemn with her arms crossed over her chest. Like she's bracing herself for bad news, like she knows you aren't staying, even if you say that you are. It's foolish of you, you realize as you close the heavy book, tucking it under your arms as you play with your jacket zipper. Your teeth catch your bottom lip in a tight tug as you mull over what to say next.
"You've always been so secretive. I was worried you'd get killed and we wouldn't know a damn thing about it," she huffs out, uncrossing her arms. Her tone is joking, but at the same time, her smile cracks. Victoria's hand finds your shoulder again, giving it a firm squeeze as her thumb rubs soothing circles over the leather. You don't dare to look at her, afraid that the walls you've poorly built over the last twenty minutes will crumble under her presence.
"Stay safe, doctor."
You don't reply as she walks past you, because you can't.
You don't know if you'll be safe with each piece you uncover about yourself.
The cat doesn't exist anymore; it's been replaced by a phantom of itself. You know it died, but somehow, it still lingers. Because you're here. You've replaced the cat with a new one. And you're scared that its curiosity will be the cause of its death again.
The lights flicker on and off before settling into a soft glow when you return to your apartment. Kicking off your shoes, you shrug off your new jacket and throw it on the back of your spinny chair, while the heavy book is dropped to your desk.
You don't spare it another glance, instead making your way to your bed with new bedsheets — pale yellow like your curtains back home — and let sleep try and take you. But it never did.
You stare at the light overhead for hours again. Waiting in earnest fear when that monster will break through your door, or when the lamp on your desk will flicker off. You keep the windows open now, waiting for something to crawl in and strangle you again. But nothing ever does. It feels like you're the one inviting danger in when you were so adamant about keeping it out.
Your eyes find the leather jacket again. Sitting up, you feel your jaw lock when you remember the paper in one of its pockets. With a heavy sigh, you get up from your bed and sit down at your desk. You lay the jacket over your lap, letting the warmth trap itself in your legs as you fish out the photograph of you — smiling, an arm slung over a co-worker's shoulders as the other holds a glass of beer.
Your fingers trace over the stranger's face — both of them. The edge of your smile, the sleeve of your turtleneck, then the man's face, obscured by bloodstains. The detail chills your bones, stopping you from turning it over and seeing that haunting warning again. Your eyes close, shoulders tensing as you take a deep breath. You had wished that the two words would disappear over time, but it's still there.
STOP LOOKING still stares back at you. And you try your best to meet it head-on.
You eventually put the photograph back in the drawer where you found it and focus on the book in front of you.
"The Secret to Identity: What if 'You' disappeared, and was replaced by another 'You'?"
You scoff, nausea overtaking you as your trembling fingers begin flipping through the pages again. Scientific findings don't register in your mind, half-afraid of what you might find, half-exhausted from finding the people that loved you.
The title was on the nose — as if you were anticipating this exact moment months ago and began preparations. Unfortunately, the notes stopped at page 111. You blink at the number, hand reaching over to flip your phone open to find that it's almost 2 a.m. You've lost track of time again, something you've been doing a lot since you got here.
With a sigh, you call it a night and get ready for bed.
Change into more comfortable clothes, put the leather jacket in the washing machine, and cozy up on the bed.
Your mind makes a mental list of what you want to do tomorrow, what you should do in order to survive. As your eyes eventually close, you think the lights go off, and the wind outside grows still. You hope that the monster from your nightmare doesn't come to kill you — you wanted to be conscious for that.
The days and months bleed into each other.
You walk around this life as if there were eggshells on the pavement when you make your way downtown, applying for a temporary job at a hiring café. Unwilling to use the, maybe, blood money on your card.
You go shopping for groceries every few weeks and buy yourself more leather jackets. An unhealthy and unviable coping mechanism, but it made you feel more connected, and that's something you desperately crave.
When you aren't buried under mountains of books explaining quantum mechanics, the multiverse, or trying to make sense of your research notes, you're at the local park. Watching people go about their days. You usually go there on the weekends when you finish work, and you aren't feeling particularly excited to try to understand physics.
You waste the days observing people walking their dogs, chatting up with friends, and enjoying picnics until sunset. Or when the police officer patrolling scolds you for staying out so late. Sometimes, you bring a stack of your research notes there — risky, yes, but you quickly realize the change of scenery is doing something good to your brain.
You absorb information better, finding links between this topic and another. And when you're too tired to think about equations and the existential dread of being in the body of another version of you, you draw. The cute shih tzu that ran up to you on your walk to the café, the new special blend that tastes like shit, or the man who looked like your father.
You miss home, you begin to delude yourself that you are home. It just looks… a little different.
You're living your childhood dream of being a barista. Serving students and the elderly with a soft smile on your face, joking in the break rooms with your co-workers about who will be the next victim of your boss's creative endeavors.
You spend your free time in the library, staring at the computer screen with headphones plugged in, listening to lectures about quantum mechanics and jotting down notes. You even receive a small snack from the cute library assistant. You haven't opened the chocolate bar yet. It's sitting, collecting dust, and waiting to be expired in the bottom of your closet drawer.
And during the times when you can't bear the heavy weight of sadness, you try to dial the number of your family. You try with your mom first, feeling your heart hammer in your chest when it connects, but instead of the voice of your role model, it's that of a drunk man thinking you are his controversially young girlfriend who wants him back.
Your father was next, but with no luck, the number doesn't exist.
You try your brother next, and like your mother, it connects. But it ended up being a scammer. You called the police on his ass and watched in satisfaction when you heard about it on your way to work.
Sometimes, you try to call yourself and your roommate. The line never connects, but you keep trying anyway. It becomes a ritual at this point. When you've hit a roadblock in your research, you reach for your phone and punch in your own number, wait patiently with hope that it may connect, and when it doesn't, you leave a long-winded voicemail instead.
In the span of two years, you've sent a total of three hundred and ninety-five voice mails to an unknown number. You feel a bit bad for the person who will eventually inherit said number, but until then, you'll use it as your personal digital diary.
It's 2004 when something breaks your clean routine.
It starts small: the lights of the café begin flickering on and off, before the lightbulbs pop.
A small scream from your co-worker has you excusing yourself from the cashier to rush to her side. "Amy?! Everything okay?"
"Motherfudger, what is wrong with the lightbulbs?"
You sigh in relief when you reach the kitchen. Amy stands in the corner, a frazzled look on her face as broken pieces of glass litter around her feet. There's a sinking feeling in your chest as you step over it, holding out a hand for Amy to hold as you guide her out of the room.
"Maybe it's just an old lightbulb."
She only gives you a deadpan look, "Babes, we replaced that lightbulb two days ago."
"Oh."
You wet your lips as Amy sighs, tightening the knot on her apron as she ushers you back to your stations. She only shakes her head and dismisses it, promising to talk to your manager — a sweet boy named Evan — about it later, after she clocks out.
"This is really weird," you mutter as you and she resume your work.
"Real weird, babes. Think this place is haunted?"
You raise an amused brow, "Thought you didn't believe in that shit?"
"Who knows," Amy shrugs, a playful smile on her lips. "Maybe I'll change my mind."
Then, cats begin appearing.
Outside of your apartment, at the park, and at work. They are everywhere, but when you try to call shelters or any animal rescue, you find none.
"Are you sure?" you say over the phone, biting down on the skin of your thumb as you pace around the room.
"Positive. We've circled the complex and checked the parking lots, but there are no cats."
"But that can't be right! I saw two of them earlier today, loitering around my door!"
There's a sigh on the other end. The voice of the vet comes out softer when he speaks again, "I assure you, if there were, we would've found them already." He pauses, "Are you sure you're seeing them correctly?"
"What?"
"I've heard from Mrs. Jonsons that you've been losing sleep lately. Perhaps you're misseeing things."
Great, you think. They think I'm hallucinating.
Pinching the bridge of your nose, you try again, "I am not misseeing anything. I can see perfectly fine, and I'm telling you, there are two cats in my—"
Meow.
You pause for a moment before you snap your head to the open window of your apartment. Dread sinks into your core when you see a cat — the same bloody black cat you've been losing your mind over — peacefully grooming itself on a tree branch.
"Hello? Are you still there? Maybe we can try to find it again tomo—"
The line cuts when you shut your phone off. With tentative steps, you press closer to your window. You feel a shiver run down your spine when a pair of blue eyes stares back at you. Fingers grip the windowsill with an iron grip, and you feel the hairs on your arms and neck raise when the other cat comes to join you. The blasted animal has enough nerve to rub its head against your curled fists.
You don't open the window again after that, keeping the blinds closed and shrouding your room in perpetual darkness, never to see the light of morning again.
The straw that broke the camel's back is when you go home after a hefty shift on a Wednesday evening.
You're rushing through the dark streets to your apartment with your hands shoved into your jacket's pockets — a new one you bought the day after seeing the bonded cats outside your window. A black and brown Harley Davidson you got when Mason — another co-worker studying mechanical engineering — offered to help you unwind.
"I didn't realize you were superstitious," Mason off-handedly mentioned, browsing through the many racks of jackets. He pulled one out, one eye closed as he placed it in front of you.
Getting his message, you took it from his hands and began walking to a nearby dressing room. "I'm not. I'm just…"
In your struggle to explain how you feel, Mason graced you with a toothy grin, a hand patting your shoulder as he helped you put on the jacket. "Hey, I'm not asking for an explanation. Sometimes, you just feel these kinds of things."
"Do you ever wish that wasn't the case?" you asked under your breath.
"What case?"
"That we can just feel things."
His lips formed into an O shape when he snapped his fingers. "Oh! Like how you want to explain your gut feeling?" When you nod, Mason only hums. "Yeah, sometimes, I guess. I mean, saying 'Hey Prof! Can't attend class today because my gut is telling me something bad will happen.' isn't really ideal, is it?"
You chuckled, shaking your head at his words. Your eyes eventually land on your figure in the mirror, Mason's hands still clamped over your shoulders as you tug the jacket down. A low whistle escapes him.
"Well, don't you look bomb!"
"Thanks to you."
"Me? Nah," Mason tugs you to the counter, offering to pay for it, to which you vehemently refused. When you left the store, he continued. "You've got this talent in making everything look good?"
"Even the abysmal eyebags and hunched over posture?" you joked, taking the hand he offered you as you got on his motorbike and secured the helmet over your head.
Mason grinned, "Especially with the abysmal eyebags and hunched posture."
The memory eases the tension coiling in your gut as you remember Mason's smile. It's during these moments that you thank your curiosity for pushing you to leave that apartment and meet the unfamiliar world. Another heavy, but relieved, sigh escapes you when the familiar building of your complex comes into view. You practically run up the steps until you clumsily reach for your keys.
When you hold the doorknob and push, it creaks.
You pause. Brows furrowed as you tried to recall if you had forgotten to lock the door this morning. You don't, but even if you did, Mrs. Jonsons would have called you and locked it herself.
Sirens are sounding in your mind as you quietly push it all the way.
Something's wrong.
It isn't just a feeling; you know something is amiss when the lights are on. You don't bother to take off your shoes, having a feeling that you'll be running anyway, as you press forward. You place your keys in between your fingers, a makeshift weapon Evan had taught you when the café had a burglar issue.
You round your desk first, noting how the book from Howard University is gone. Next, you pull the drawers open, and like the book, the photograph of you and other research notes and maps were missing.
You gulp down your fear, feeling sweat trickle down your forehead as you turn around, making your way to the closet. When you swing the doors open, you immediately check the bottom drawer.
It's empty.
"Shit!"
You rummage through all the clothing. Taking them off all the hangers and checking the pockets for anything that resembled a tracking device, or any device that could give away your location in general. When you toss the final jacket to the floor — the very first one you bought — a sinking feeling of unease settles over you when you catch a glimpse of something under your bed.
Hesitantly, you got on your knees and turned your phone's flashlight on. You shoved your hand under the bed frame and grabbed the first thing that brushed against your fingers. Your breath comes out short and ragged, brows furrowed as you inspect the item.
"Just heels," you whisper. "I don't wear heels."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"The door was unlocked, the lights were on—"
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
"My notes are missing. So is my photo. Hell, even my expired chocolate bar—"
Meow.
You drop the heel in your hand and dart for the window.
It's open.
"Open window, like last time."
POP.
You raise your head when the room is blanketed in darkness.
"Broken lights."
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
When you look out the window, the black cat from last week is there. Body language tensed, maybe even frightened, as its pupils turn into slits. Your breath comes out in quiet puffs, the cat slowly backing away when you try to reach it.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
POP.
You turn around at the second burst of a lightbulb, and you feel your nerves run cold.
It's as if time had slowed, giving your brain enough time to register what's about to happen. A blurry figure stands in front of you, a strange blend of a gun and a syringe aimed right at your heart.
"Wait…!"
You think they give you enough time to at least turn around before everything blacks out.
The sounds of metal rustling and clinking around you are what make you come to your senses. A heavy weight is around both your shoulders, as the world around you is strangely tilted. You blink away the bleariness and watch in helplessness as heavy boots carry you through a muddy path. You don't even dare to make a sound, or even give away the fact that you are now awake. So, you lie there, limp in the hands of your captor as the memory of last night comes crashing into you.
You don't have to wait long to be left alone when your executioner sets you down, heavy pair of hands gently setting you down on the ground before tugging at the thing encompassing your wrists. The sound of hammering followed, and when you crack your eye by a fraction, you realize who it is you're in the room with.
Tall with a dark trench coat and hat, frame taller than you've ever seen in your life, as his larger hands tugged at the chain linked to your wrists to ensure it didn't leave the ground. When he turns to you, when Bitores Mendez turns to you, you shut your eyes and pray for your breath to even out.
He comes closer. Close enough, you feel his breath tickle your nose before he abruptly retracts. You feel his stare on you linger for a moment longer, a grunt leaving him as he lands one final kick on the nail wedged into the ground with your chains, and leaves the room.
You wait until he's out of the room before fully opening your eyes, letting a curse fall from your lips as a headache greets you. You look down at your wrist and watch how the light over your head flickers. You slowly get up on your feet and start tugging.
"This isn't as easy as the game made it out to be."
You attempt to break free until your wrists turn red, sore from all the tugging and failed acquisition of freedom. Eventually, when you plant your feet on a slippery spot, a pained grunt leaves you when your chin meets the ground.
"Ow, fucking hell, that hurt," you cursed, feeling the stinging pain of having bitten the tip of your tongue at the contact. "No more freedom, I guess."
The floor is cold, and you raise your chained hands to realize that they have taken your jacket. With a frustrated sigh, you lie there until you get your bearings back.
"Popping light bulbs, bonded black cats, now I get kidnapped," you summarize to yourself. "My jacket is gone, and I'm in a basement where Bitores Méndez made sure I couldn't escape." When you sit up, you flex your fingers and check for any injuries. "I'm not injured, but I was definitely shot with something from when I was in the apartment."
You get one good look at your surroundings and feel what little hope for a normal life leaves your body. With another heavy sigh, you lie back down and stare at the lightbulb swinging over your head.
"Great way to invite a guest over, huh, mister lightbulb?"
Dumbly, you stare at the swaying ornament on the ceiling, thinking with misplaced amusement that he agrees with you.
Yeah, you've definitely lost your marbles.